


Luck o' the Irish

by LizaCameron



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Holidays, St Patrick's day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-14
Updated: 2010-03-14
Packaged: 2019-05-30 14:24:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15098516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizaCameron/pseuds/LizaCameron
Summary: Josh/Donna fluff set on the first St. Patrick's Day of the Bartlet Administration. Set in my Seven Days universe.





	Luck o' the Irish

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

Ow!” Josh winces as he grabs his arm. He can be so wimpy sometimes. His gaze darts from the “sore” spot back up to where he can properly glare at me. “What was that for?”

“You’re not wearing green,” I reply as I efficiently move around his desk and straighten up the complete wreckage he’s managed to create in the mere fifteen minutes or so he’s been here this morning.

“And that’s reason for a physical assault, why?”

“That was not a physical assault.”

The big baby is still rubbing his arm. “From where I’m sitting it felt a lot like a physical assault.”

“Josh…” I finish my organizing and turn so I’m leaning back against his desk right next to where he’s sitting. “What is today?”

“The day you got yourself fired for pinching your boss?” he smarts back at me.

“Beyond that.”

“I have no idea… Tuesday?”

“Actually, it’s Wednesday.” I reach over and tap the calendar on his desk. “Wednesday March 17th.”

When he still doesn’t react, I clarify, “St. Patrick’s Day.”

Now he rolls his eyes. “Donna, I’ve no time for you and your holidays. Is it necessary for you to observe every single one? Will I next be expected to erect a shrine to you on Secretary’s Day?”

That earns him a glare. A hard one. One meant to communicate that if he doesn’t tread carefully here he could very well end up with a useless temp for a week while I take some of that government vacation time I’ve started accruing.

He must catch my meaning. “I’ll build you a shrine on Secretary’s Day,” he says fearfully.

“You bet you will. And today you will also be the  recipient of a pinch every hour on the hour until you put on some green in celebration of the Emerald Isle.”

“Okay, but can I at least request that next hour you pinch a little lower, you know maybe a spot with a bit more padding.” He purposefully directs my gaze to his... tush!

I see him smirk. I think that must be because of the scandalized expression on my face. Apparently, I’ve completely failed in my attempt to appear unaffected by his ass-fondling innuendo. Damn my blush-able Irish skin!

Before I can regroup and respond I hear myself yelping, “Hey!”

Because believe it or not he just pinched ME!

“What was that for!?” I demand as I grab the spot that he just assaulted, which was not on my arm by the way. It wasn’t exactly on my tush either, more on my side near my waist. He just pinched my waist! It was through my clothes but still.

“What’s good for the lad is good for the lass. Where’s your green?”

I stick out my arm and point to the not quite tasteful, but not quite gaudy, costume jewelry bracelet I’m wearing that is made up of funky green stones. “Also I might have green on under my clothes.”

His expression changes instantly as his jaw drops. “Your underwear is green?”

Ha! Who’s affected by the innuendo now? “Maybe.” With the look he’s giving me I think I should change the subject and quickly. “Now that you’ve pinched me without cause I’m going to have to up the pinching to every half hour until you put on some green. Or I could torture you with St. Patrick’s Day trivia until you succumb. Your call.”

“Donna,” he whines. The whine is not going away, I thought it might once we took office, but it’s only gotten worse if that’s possible. “You know I don’t have any green.”

“Not a problem, I have a shamrock pin for you.” Since I’m still leaning against his desk, I shift so I can reach into my slacks pocket and pull out the pin for his inspection.

He crinkles up his nose disdainfully. “I’m not wearing some kitschy shamrock pin. As for celebrating St. Patrick’s Day, I hate to break this to you Donna, but I’m not Irish.”

“I know, but I am.”

He looks at me as if computing the facts for a minute. “You are?”

“Yes.” I smile at him with satisfaction.

“Is this one of those times when you pretend to be something you’re not, you know, for kicks?”

“When have I ever done that?”

He raises an eyebrow as if it’s something I do everyday. “You pretended to be my assistant and look where that got us.”

“Yes look,” I say as I wave towards his door and the rest of the West Wing. “Not such a bad place. But I really am Irish. Well, half on my dad’s side. Half Italian on my mom’s.”

“Really.” He sits back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head and definitely looks as if he’s soaking up this information.

“Yes, really and I would think St. Patrick’s Day would be your kind of holiday.”

“Why’s that?” he asks with a smirk, but also with actual curiosity.

“It’s mostly about parades, wearing green and beer. You love beer, you look good in green and who doesn’t love a parade?”

“You think I look good in green?” Ha! I tell him he looks good in green and I can see already he’s reconsidering the shamrock pin. I’ll have to remember this tactic. If I had a bright green sweater right now he would totally wear it. Although, I must admit it’s not a lie. He does look good in green. A nice forest green really compliments his complexion and hair color and brings out his brown eyes. Not that I’ve noticed.

I hold the shamrock pin out to him. “So are you going to put it on or should I start with the trivia?”

“Neither.” Hmph. The flattery didn’t work, although I’m telling you I’m sensing it would have if it’d been a sweater or a tie or something rather than the pin. “Don’t you have some work to do out there? Some assistance to render me that doesn't, you know, include you sitting on my desk irritating me?”

Still holding out the pin I ask, “What do the three leaves of the shamrock symbolize?”

He rolls his eyes and sarcastically says, “I don’t know… the number of years you’ve been in my office heckling me about this?”

“The Holy Trinity.” I ignore his attempt at a joke and instead point to the leaves of the pin in my hand. “The Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

“That is very useful information for a Jewish person, thank you.”

“Your welcome.” If he thinks he’s going to win this battle of wills he knows me not at all. I could go all day. “Do you know what the official emblem of Ireland is?”

“A Holy Shamrock?” There’s a sarcastic tone to his voice that’s not wholly attractive. Although, it’s not wholly unattractive either.

“Good guess, but no, it’s the Irish Harp.”

“You know you’re driving me insane right now?” I can tell he’s annoyed, but also amused. I find that I often times bring out both reactions from him simultaneously. It’s a gift.

I raise an eyebrow at him in challenge. “Put on the pin and we can end the madness.”

“I’m not wearing the pin, Donna.” Now he’s just being difficult.

“Who exactly was Saint Patrick?”

“I know this one. If I get it right will you go away?” He stands, but doesn’t wait for my reply before he continues. “He’s the guy that got rid of the snakes.”

“Actually, he was a Christian missionary from Wales who’s credited with converting the Irish to Christianity in the 5th Century,” I recite from memory. “And March 17th was the day he died.”

“Okay, a Christian missionary who was also a snake herder.” Josh replies as he grabs his suit jacket from the back of his chair and starts to shrug into it.

“He didn’t do that,” a voice interjects from the door.

Startled by the interruption we both whip around to see Toby standing just outside Josh’s office. “There were probably never snakes in Ireland to begin with; the legend of the snakes symbolizes Saint Patrick driving the pagans from Ireland.”

“Since when are you an expert on Irish tradition?” Josh scoffs at him with a chuckle. “And why are you wearing…” Now he squints at Toby from across the room before he asks incredulously, “Is that a shamrock pin on your suit?”

“Yes, yes it is. The better question is why aren’t you wearing one?”

“Huh?” Josh replies rather lamely.

“I’m wearing mine because protocol sent one to each of us to wear in honor of the Irish President’s visit today. You know it’s tradition for her to come over and present  
our President with a shamrock in a ceremony on St. Patrick’s Day. Happens every year, didn’t you get the memo that came with the pin? I studied up, knowing Bartlet and his penchant for trivia he’ll be putting each of us on the spot. And I try not to start the day by looking like an ass in front of a world leader if I can help it.”

When Josh doesn’t respond, Toby waves his hand and turns to leave. “I’ll meet you in there.”

Once he’s gone, Josh slowly turns around and pins me with an appraising gaze. "Memo?"

I reach towards his inbox and pick up the piece of paper that's been sitting there waiting for his attention for several days.

After a few seconds he sheepishly holds out one hand. “The pin.”

Instead of handing it over, I step towards him and start attaching it to the lapel of his suit jacket. I don't do it because I enjoy standing close and getting my hands on him-- I do it because he'd fumble with it and stick himself and then end up asking me to do it anyway Seriously, that's all.

He stands completely still as my fingers lightly graze his chest underneath the jacket, but I can tell he’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “So this whole thing was to get me prepared for the arrival of the Irish President?”

With a tug to straighten his lapel I finish fastening the shamrock pin and step back. Instead of answering him I simply shrug and offer him an enigmatic smile.

I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. “You know a normal assistant would’ve just given me the pin and an index card of information.”

Deftly, I extract an index card from my pocket and slip it into his jacket pocket.

“Josh Lyman, if you wanted a normal assistant you never would’ve hired me.”

The End


End file.
